In the far north of Faerie lies the frosty city of NeverEnding, it's circular streets confusing the few tourists who aren't instantly mobbed by three-dozen beggars with silly accents upon arrival, before being serially assaulted by an assortment of irritating ninnies who've lost various magic rings, inexplicably got into debt with someone who lives halfway across the world, or discovered that their only daughter is in love with an insane old wizard.

That's now, of course, but in the days of the reign of Lord Nitwit Alligator, of course, things were different. I suppose things began going downhill with the Great Plague. It was terrible. People dying in the streets, burning carts everywhere, the police inexplicably herding people into ghettos for little or no reason.

The clerics were at a loss as to how to cure it. It was almost as if Tryte had abandoned them, and few had any clue what to do about it. Even the blessings of Dexter and the Order of the Ruddy Great Hand did not heal the sick. But in the darkness there was hope - for the mage Wizzlet The Somewhat Bemused scried, and looked into magic mirrors, and dropped raven's eyes into magic wells, and consulted with the trees and the birds and the earth-gods, and concluded that four ingredients were needed to solve this crisis: The underarm hair of a Lesser or Herbacious Backson; the pancreatic fluid of a Silverback Starloom Harpy, the toenail clippings of a vampire-count, and the foot of a Dire Canteloupe Ogre's +23 Wild Staff of Misgivings of the Oatcake.

And so High Grand Paladin, the Lady Anoin'Teth opened the Hero's Guild, calling forward every thug between NeverEnding and Lustin. She hoped to train enough heroes that they would find and bring these ingredients before it was too late. And from among them, came Our Intrepid Hero (tm) Mylennia Quickbattles, Lino Lanu-Lee, the sorceress and many others now revered.

It was a quiet night when death came to the Hero's Guild. Well, I suppose I should say when bandits, thugs and sorcerors came- I mean, it's not like plenty of people weren't dying off thanks to the plague... but anyway. They ransacked the place, in the process letting free the four specimens required to create the Magic Potion that gives superhuman strength, as well as those needed for the plague cure.

Mylennia was instrumental in the valiant but vain defence of the Guild Building, and in recognition of her... er... skills, she was summoned to meet with the City Council. In the chamber, Lord Nitwit Alligator sat at a high throne; surrounding him were Ailing Bend, his spymaster, Anoin'Teth, the High Grand Paladin, Felt-tip Warts, her toyboy, and Dexter Indejungel, the high priest of the Ruddy Great Hand... Oh, and Mr. Writts, the president of the Chub Fuddler's Guild.

When Mylennia paraded into the City Council's chamber, Lord Nitwit Alligator sat on his high throne: A gold-and-silver-and-platinum throne that was 10 feet high and required a ladder, along with some general climbing skills to seat. It was not a seat for just anybody, after all.

As Mylennia entered, The Lord Protector was solving an unusual puzzle in the form of a cube that a wizard had granted him, partly as a gift and partly as a distraction. When he saw Mylennia enter, he waved over to her and pointed her to a seat. A number of waiters dashed forth to find out what Mylennia would like for dinner.

Disregarding whether the rest of the Council was ready or not, he suddenly got up (there was a platform erected high above on the throne for just such an occasion) and announced in his authoritative reptilian voice, "You have all gathered here... for a splendid dinner and a night of entertainment! Enjoy! Rejoice! Live in mirth! But there is one tiny matter, yes, tiny. You see, as it turned out, Anoin'Teth, my High, Grand, Paladin just told me that there was a bit of a heh, shall we say, MIX-UP at the Hero's Guild. You see, there were four animals in the Guild, a fact that nobody had told me, and now they're missing. Why, you ask? Well, because as it turns out, they have a certain cure to a certain disease that I have noticed among you folk; not general apathy, mind you, but a little something I call the Great Plague."

"So I wish to put this task upon you. You will enjoy to your heart's content tonight and rejoice greatly! We might also throw stones at the plague-struck populace, if have the time! And yes, as Lord Protector of NeverEnding, I must ask of you to find out whatever happened to those darn animals. We can't have a kingdom without some exotic animals. And maybe a population struck by a wozitcalled."

Cheers erupted in the meeting hall. There was little else that could erupt at the moment, but it whatever it was, it erupted, too.

No sooner had the Lord Protector of NeverEnding ceased speaking than the small figure of Mr. Writts leapt up, one finger raised in quibble.

"My Lord, if I might be so bold as to make a small suggestion", he began, in his immensely dull voice, "I would like to know who is responsible for this failure of the public trust, and would like to propose that an independent enquiry be set up, headed by various public-spirited individuals, to look into and investigate this matter with a full enquiry into the circumstances of the breach and theft, so that they may be duly chastised."

Lord Protector of NeverEnding went into a very serious look. He appeared to be weighing options greatly, and without scales. We was, in fact, trying to find out whatever the hell the man meant.

"Responsible for the failure of the public trust. Hmm. You there!" he called out to a waiter delivering an obscene food item. "Him. He's responsible for wozitcalled! Inquiry. Yes, do go and look into that. Chastised. Hmm. Hm. Hrm."

"My lord Alligator, allowest me," Anoin'Teth announced, rising from her seat next to him. With a very official-sounding voice, despite the barbeque sauce dribbled down the front of her very shiny and ineffective-looking armor, she addressed the guards. "Captains, please arrest this man."

"On what grounds?!" Mr. Writts objected quite strenuously.

"None are required," Anoin'Teth proclaimed, looking quite regal (as she had mopped up the barbeque sauce only moments previously). "Placeth this man in one of the cells previously holding the four beasts! If the people believest we have seized one they mightst cease their bellowing."

"My Lord", protested the chub fuddler as he was carried out - unwillingly - from the chamber, "this kind of, ahah, frankly flippant response does not best enable the public good! I shall be writing a letter to the NeverEnding Evening Post about this!"

Meanwhile, Ailing Bend had made a beeline for Mylennia. The spymaster was everything that a spymaster should be--tall, and dapper,with polished ebony skin and strong features which hinted at ancient royalty;except for his unfortunate tendency to fart at the most crucial moments.

Seizing her hand, he kissed it repeatedly, and took a deep preparatory breath before proclaiming his eternal and undying love for her, not to mention preceding story about his uber-hawt elven chick whom he murdered in an Othello-esque fit of rage.

Given Mylennia's body odour, this was precisely the wrong thing to do, and our suave spymaster gently slumped to the ground.

The sun goes down and the sky reddens, pain grows sharp.
light dwindles. Then is evening
when jasmine flowers open, the deluded say.
But evening is the great brightening dawn
when crested cocks crow all through the tall city
and evening is the whole day
for those without their lovers

The Apothecary was seated near the head of the table, his theroetical alchemical acumen making him a prime candidate for the mixing ceremony in which one piece of one animal was placed next to the other three pieces of three different animals and stirred. A very complicated process.

In this instance, however, the alchemical processes of creating a cure to the most virulent disease ever to wreak the world were not, in fact, his primary concern.

As the Guilty Waiter stepped past, the Apothecary moved like greasy lightning, withdrawing his axe from a place that could only be described as Hammerspace. The wickedly-notched trumpet-shaped blade embedded itself into the waiter's tray, quivering like the sign of the Judgment to come.

The Apothecary, now obviously in the persona of Lord Kandear Ironfist, spoke, his voice booming. "Then take him away and destroy him, and rend his bones, and give the marrow to dogs. Burn his remains to ashes, and spread them across the four winds. I condemn you to the Fiery Black Depths of Shal-Naggog, and curse your soul never to rest until you repent of your sins and cure this sickness. Take him away and destroy him as I have ordered you."

The Guards remained still, naturally. They were under orders to stand by the doors, do nothing, and only say vague acknowledgments and directions to the nearest lavatory. Of course, there weren't any lavatories in this land. That was the whole point.

"Must I do everything myself?" He gripped the axe and jerked it free, the terrified waiter standing stock-still like a complete idiot as the axe came around on it's fatal arc.

"Oh, good heavens." The iron-clad, mighty voice of Kandear Ironfist was suddenly replaced with a wispy, quiet voice that even those who weren't half-deaf from fireballs detonating by their head and the screams of peasant brigades out for blood would strain to be able to hear. "Can't we all just get along? Why do we have to have all this violence? Maybe if we just stop, the plague will go away on it's own, and we can go back to our regular lives?"

"Fantastic Idea! See, that is why this woman is the High, Grand, Paladin while the rest of you are neither high, nor grand, nor paladins. There is something to be learned for her, I tell you. And I might add that Mr. Wozhizname must be put under the grounds of well, confounding the Lord Protector and causing mass confusion and mental attack. And if we ever do get to finding those darn animals, we oughta hang this bum, yes. We haven't hung anyone in a long time."

As the man was dragged out, Alligator laughed heartily at threat of a letter. "The NeverEnding Evening Post, you say? Why, I own it! I am the editor! Your letter will go to me, will be received with many thanks and will be published with accolades. But yes, who will provide you with paper in your dank cell? Paladin! Put this man on the charge of eh, having criminal relations, black market trade, piracy, occult literature, and conspiracy."

Pointing at the jumpy Apothecary, he issued, "And this man! He is clearly out of his mind! Which is a good thing, I might add, seeing as the rest of you clearly do not know where your minds are. Seat him at once and give the man some more barbeque sauce! Yes, yes. 'tis all good."

Mylennia Quickbattles, highly distractible, was also highly confused. You see, she was one of those tall and brawnily beautiful Vikingtyp lasses whose mental capacities only reach their peak under the influence of ale. As for the body odor that had so rapidly caused her hand-kisser and potential suitor to fall into a dead faint, it was not altogether unpleasant, a heady mixture of sweat, sage, and lavender. Since armpit and a faint whiff of unwashed intimate places were the main ingredients, though, most people sprinted for the nearest hallway or outdoor space for fresh air when they met her. An evil Faerie had put a curse upon her at birth, saying if a great warrior captured her and scrubbed her with two full bars of soap in every place she physically possessed, she would become his bride and vtorym, or second-in-command. She, however, was second to none and would have none of it.

I would really appreciate it if you would step into a steaming washtub and take a Great Bath, thought Lord Nitwit Alligator rather crossly, but he said no such thing to Mylennia for fear he'd lose the Intrepid Hero(tm) before she even started out on her journey. Thus, he commanded the Vikingtyp lass:

"I want ye--er, you--to go out into the wilds of NeverEnding and collect four crucial ingredients to cure this most heckacious disease. You must find the underarm hair of a Lesser or Herbacious Backson; the pancreatic fluid of a Silverback Starloom Harpy, the toenail clippings of a vampire-count, and the foot of a Dire Canteloupe Ogre's +23 Wild Staff of Misgivings of the Oatcake. Travel far and wide to search for these ingredients, and return them to me when you find them. If you do not, you shall face heckacious punishment."

"Lather and water," replied Lord Alligator, "applied to you for two full hours."

Mylennia shuddered and knelt before the reptile. "I shall return at once, milord, with the ingredients you seek!" Her body was visibly quivering.

"Good," he replied. "Will you be needing any soapplies--er, supplies, milady?"

Mylennia ticked off on her long and surprisingly delicate fingers, for a hefty Vikingtyp lass of her size. "Ale," she said, "ale, ale, and more ale. Oh, and a big, nasty sword to fight off any monsters that come my way and collect said ingredients if the creatures who do possess them be quite hostile." She blushed a little. "I lost mine when I was trying to balance it on my nose while standing on a rock in the midst of Lake Drowningdeep. I did not drown, but my sword did, aye. It fell off!" Mylennia stared straight down at the floor.

Lord Nitwit Alligator shook his head and turned to his loyal subjects. "Does anyone have such a big, nasty sword?" he asked, "or shall I have to send this fragrant lass away with naught but Unker's Uberstein to aid her in battle?"

A bright light shone from the heavens, bathing the whole room in a rather nasty glow and some hideous overuse of strobe effects. It was Tryte, Deity of Mediocrity.

"HOLD IT JUST ONE MOMENT", he began. "YOU CAN'T JUST SEND HER ON HER OWN. NO, NO, NO. MYLENNIA WILL TAKE FELT-TIP WARTS, LINO LANU-LEE, AILING BEND, ANOIN'TETH, AND DEXTER INDEJUNGE - YES AND THAT APOTHECARY BLOKE IF YOU MUST. I HAVE DECREED IT. OH, AND THE CHICKEN WINGS ARE FABULOUS."

The light dimmed again, and a few guests were carried out, in the midst of severe seizures. A quiet gloom fell across the room, lasting many minutes.

The long silence was broken by Lord Alligator, who was not as deep in consideration as checking to see if the coast was clear.

"What?! All of them?! And who's to pay for them, oh Deity of Mediocrity, oh Lord of the Abysmal Plains, oh King of Abject Stupidity? You think that because I run a city I suddenly have a goldmine of eh well, gold? Now because you just used the word "decreed", I'm going to play along. But don't forget that I'm seriously considering atheism."

Mylennia's face broke into a wry smile. She stepped up towards Lord Alligator's throne and knelt before him once again. "Milord, I can help with the provisioning of the adventuring party in a rather roundabout way." She winked and blushed, batting her surprisingly long lashes at the reptile.

"And what way is that?" asked Lord Alligator, raising a scaly and skeptical eyebrow. He had a hard time imagining this lass working to earn money...

"People pay me to go away," said Mylennia. "My sweet smell, ye know." She shrugged good-naturedly. "Mostly gold, but sometimes platinum and even the fabled Sverxplatinum coin." Lord Alligator's jaw dropped: the Sverxplatinum was the coin you used when the economy of your land was so tilted in favor of the super-rich that it was the only coin you could use to afford anything! When he asked her how she had ever earned a Sverxplatinum, she said:

"I begged it off of a Hundredth-Level Powermerc, who said that my odor was so powerful that it was making all of his vital statistics plummet! I was not intending to offend the lad, but some people are miffed by the merest--"

Ailing Bend could feel the beginnings of a migraine, no doubt induced by Tryte's divine glory. He stumbled over to his lord's throne, taking care to keep his eyes tightly shut lest Tryte choose to put in another appearance.

After stubbing his right big toe a dozen times, he bumped against something rough and scaly. He risked cracking an eye open to see a long snout which contained an alarming amount of teeth. The spymaster rapidly backpedaled and threw himself into a deep bow.

"Milord." He could feel the headache gripping his skull, pressure building from teeth to temples.

Lord Alligator picked a scrap of something out of his teeth and flicked it away casually while the handsome human watched in horrified fascination. "What, minion? This had better be good."

"Ah... That was our finest agent. I do believe that we are freshly out of spies, sire. I shall make haste in reestablishing our network." Ailing Bend's voice diminished to a stage whisper. "My lord, are you sure that the strikingly beautiful and, uh, pungent Mylennia is suited for this? I mean, she'd be really good at cracking skulls, and hacking people to bits, and killing everyone who disagrees with her..." His voice trailed off as the fact that he was on the receiving end of a reptilian began to register in his muzzy head.

The sun goes down and the sky reddens, pain grows sharp.
light dwindles. Then is evening
when jasmine flowers open, the deluded say.
But evening is the great brightening dawn
when crested cocks crow all through the tall city
and evening is the whole day
for those without their lovers